We had a few social engagements last week and although these were exciting in their own right, there was definitely a sense of build up to the wedding on Saturday; this is probably true of any event that requires its own shopping trip! Of course, with this in mind, I was quite eager to try the sari on, though I’d been very patient and waited for the day itself to arrive. The fact that I had no idea how to put it on myself was something of a deciding factor in this apparent restraint but I was also a little apprehensive; I’ve heard saris are hard to walk in and not very comfortable for those not used to wearing them. I’m normally up for a challenge but these days form definitely follows function in my sartorial decision making and it’s been many a year since I talked myself into enduring discomfort for an evening just because I thought I looked good. I find formal social engagements exhausting enough even in my own cultural territory so I was aware that I might be setting myself up for a bit of a job and if I was going to be uncomfortable I thought it best not to know ahead of time. Still you can’t come to India and not try wearing a sari at least once and there’s not much point putting one on unless you’re actually going somewhere in it!

The wedding invitation made clear that it started at 11am and we’d been told we’d leave at about 10:30. Given that I would need help to get dressed, but not wanting to be pushy or rush anyone else who also needed to get dressed I simply said ‘I’ve no idea how long it’ll take to put on, please let me know when it’s time to get ready!?’ and settled down to a quiet hour before all the excitement kicked off! I certainly didn’t want to get into my beautiful new strait jacket too early and start the discomfort any sooner than needed but at about 10 O’clock, I started to wonder where everyone was. It really was very restful but I was worried we may end up with a last minute rush. Didn’t anyone else have a watch!? I looked upstairs. I looked downstairs. I fetched the sari, packed my bag and got as ready as I possibly could. Aryaketu, sat happily in the downstairs living room, asked ‘Why are you not in your sari yet?’ Shakyajata emerged, dressed in her new kurta. Neither of these things did anything to dispel my concern. I’m not used to being unable to get dressed independently. I think I can just about recall learning to button up my own dressing gown and I definitely remember the perseverance of learning to tie my own shoe laces but I managed to get my head around these skills nigh on three decades ago. Having to wait for someone to dress me was somewhat disconcerting. But of course, I was forgetting; we’re in India and time is only ever theoretical. Just as I had found Sheetal (who was dressed) and tried to remind her politely that I might need a hand, Aryaketu wandered calmly into the kitchen and started to make himself some breakfast. It was now after 10:30. Sheetal told me that Vaishali (her sister in law, who also teaches at Aryaloka and lives with the family downstairs) would be better able to help me… and then proceeded to get changed into a different outfit. Aryaketu went to have a shower. I calmed down.

I had thought I might only need help putting a sari on once and that if I watched carefully I would be able to do it myself next time. This wasn’t born out in reality; however, when Vaishali arrived to help dress me! I felt like a cross between a maypole and the unfortunate victim of a very aesthetically aware spider as she ducked and dived around me tucking yards of fabric into the petticoat tied incredibly tightly around my waist. A pleat here, a tuck there, a loop left trailing for some unknown purpose, a fold, another tuck… and then the pinning started! How on earth anyone ever manages to get into one of these themselves I couldn’t begin to imagine but I think you’d have to learn to do it young. So much for a sense of pride over the buttoned dressing gown. Finally I was folded, tucked and pinned satisfactorily. I was already sweating (great!) but it was time to find out if I could walk. I took an experimental step forward. No problem. A second step. I did not trip over. I internally congratulated myself for my ability to remain perpendicular. I’m not a stranger to hitting the deck when I have no restriction round my legs whatsoever and this seemed like something of an achievement. Actually, I didn’t find walking any trouble at all, but I did feel strangely exposed and only half dressed. Strange as it may sound from someone who has spent the last four weeks silently grumbling about having to keep her legs and shoulders covered at all times for reasons of modesty, I found myself feeling rather naked to have half my midriff hanging out.

I tried to tell myself that I wouldn’t think so much of it and would in fact have far more on display if I was at a swimming pool. So there I was, suddenly transformed with one swish of fabric into a semi-naked maypole-spider-dinner at a swimming pool and boy was I ready to party! Aryaketu was still having a shave though, so Shakyajata and I decided to pop up and see the young women in their computer class. We knew we’d be slightly disrupting them but also that they’d be delighted to see us in our finery! And they were too! Such enthusiasm! I realised how strange I found their excitement to see me in a sari, as opposed to how I imagine I’d have reacted to seeing an Indian teacher (if I’d had one) in Western clothes, which is, probably not at all. I’d have been fascinated to see her in her own, traditional Indian clothes, not stuff that I wear every day. Where’s the fun in that? Where’s the novelty? Shakyajata reflected wisely that it demonstrates your acceptance of them and I suppose from a native of what is widely perceived to be a more developed or civilised culture that’s really very important, and certainly well worth being a bit constricted round the middle for.

Shakyajata and I prepare to leave...

Finally, around forty five minutes ‘behind schedule’ and fifteen after the publicised start of the wedding, we were all ready to go and I found myself feeling very grateful for the fact that we’d be getting a lift to the venue so I’d not have to navigate the bus in my new outfit. I climbed in the back next to Shakyajata, leaving the front seat free for Sheetal. Aryaketu had already explained he’d be picking Mark up separately after dropping us off as there’d be no room in the car. I thought we’d have been able to squeeze him in between us in the back but was secretly glad not to be too scrunched up given the circumstances. This was until Sheetal got in the back next to me. Then Saket (Vaishali’s son) climbed on her lap. Jija (Aryaketu’s mum) climbed in the front seat. Her sister hopped in too, half on top, half next to her. And so we drove off, seven in one car, none of us with seatbelts including a child and two elderly ladies (both in the front seat). Aryaketu made a call on his mobile (maybe to let Mark know we were running late? Probably not) and at this point I stopped trying to make a mental catalogue of all the traffic regulations we’d have been breaking in the UK. We’d not have made it past the end of the road! But, in the UK we were not; just another difference to swallow up and get on with!

It soon transpired that what had appeared to be lateness had in fact been a carefully orchestrated disinclination to spend too much time hanging about unnecessarily. Well aware that the ceremony was highly unlikely to start on time, there had never been any need to rush and we actually drove past the wedding procession that had not yet even arrived at the celebration hall. We were dropped off outside as Mark was collected and made our way to some seats halfway towards the back. Shakyajata was firm in turning down an offer of seats on the stage; we’d never even met the bride and groom after all and neither of us fancied playing the role of trophy white lady. That might sound harsh or unfriendly and it did indeed feel a bit that way but there’s a degree of status that comes with visible association with Westerners (I’d encountered this in China too) and it makes me feel uncomfortable at best. We were attracting enough attention just by being there; far better to take some modest seats in an unobtrusive spot than to draw anymore stares. I tried to ignore the gentleman in front taking a ‘selfie’ with us carefully framed in the background by turning my face to look behind me, only to find myself staring into another camera. Such is life. A strange feeling though, to be valued for one’s skin colour instead of some achievement, especially when you’ve spent your whole adult life fighting as much as possible to eradicate this mistaken assumption that a chance quantity of pigmentation in the dermis has any bearing on your value as a human being. At least this discomfort distracted me from any thoughts about how I felt about what I was wearing and I found myself relaxing as I enjoyed watching the live band who were merrily turning out all manner of entertaining, up-beat songs to keep the crowd entertained as they waited. Quite a crowd it was too. I think there were about 500 people milling around and I wondered how on earth it was possible to have so many friends to invite to your wedding until I reasoned that it was probably not that difficult at all if you were content to invite entire families of ten plus their random foreign visitors who you’d never even met. Of course, this being a Buddhist wedding, there were also a lot of Order Members and other Sangha members about too, which would have pushed the number (and I thought also the costs!) right up through the roof!

The Wedding Shrine

Finally, the bride and groom arrived and the ceremony began. A figure wearing a kesa (the Triratna ‘dog collar’) appeared on stage (a reassuringly familiar sight!) and began to chant the refuges and precepts, a very usual way to start any ritual proceedings. Sorry, did I say, the ceremony began? Excuse me? The ceremony has started! Nobody seemed in the least bit interested in this fact and continued to chat, mill about as the fancy took them and call upon the services of various members of waiting staff who were distributing refreshments from trays of tea and snacks. Nobody except us anyway, I realised I wasn’t the only one finding this odd as I noticed Shakyajata and Mark also joining in with the chant. Apart from one other lady I spotted across the aisle, I genuinely think we may have been the only ones! To be fair, I suppose there wasn’t really all that much to see but it seemed a bit disrespectful to almost totally ignore the entire reason for our presence; the lifetime commitment these young people were making to one another. In India, it really is a lifetime commitment too, divorce and separation are still very rare and I felt the least I could do was try and participate.

True to the pattern of most weddings I’ve attended though, it seemed most people saw it as an opportunity to eat free food and show off their fancy clothes. There were plenty of these too and I soon ran out of energy to mentally tag sari designs as my ‘favourite so far’. ‘Nope, that one!’, ‘Actually I prefer the colour of that one.’ ‘But maybe with the pattern of that!’

After the chanting, I managed to peer through the backs of heads, milling crowds and enthusiastic photography team (yes, there really was an entire team) to see what was happening next. Part of the ceremony involved a cord being tied around the couple’s hands before water was poured over them. They swapped garlands (indicating my opportunity to dispense with the handful of marigold petals I’d been sweatily clutching since they’d been handed to me half an hour ago) and saluted the shrine for a final time before leaving the stage. “Was that it!?” I inquired of Sheetal. Not quite. They had gone to get changed and we were invited upstairs to a buffet lunch while they did so (I guess there might have been some formal signing of registers and such too, but that’s based on an English model and I don’t actually know that!). The lunch hall was huge, I suppose it would have to be for so many guests, and while I was semi-curious to explore it, I was actually quite grateful that Sheetal offered to go and get me a plate of ‘safe’ foods; she knows well enough now what I like to eat and would be better placed than I to identify any random milk products! A Buddhist wedding will be vegetarian by default (though I’m learning to assume nothing) but milk doesn’t come into this category so paneer, ghee and curds are still likely to be involved in some dishes. I waited for her patiently, wondering how long it would be before I spilled an oily, turmeric yellow dollop down my so far shockingly pristine turquoise sari. I contemplated perching on a sofa but decided that with a petticoat tied so restrictively tightly about my tummy, trying to put any food down me whilst bent at the gut would be a temptation too far for the gods of indigestion so I stayed standing, true to buffet style. Plenty of more practised sari wearers were happily plonked on the floor to enjoy what appeared to be plate after plate of (characteristically excellent) Indian specialities. Much as my taste buds were tempted to request seconds, my stomach over-ruled them for once. No more space! No time either, as we were herded into photo after photo by various people who I think were friends of friends, or who were at least pretending to be.

Long after my face started aching from all the pseudo smiling (I dread to think how many random people now have pictures of my well-meaning yet rapidly fatiguing grin-cum-grimace on their respective mobile devices!), we were told the couple were ready to receive us and so we all trundled back down stairs to the stage, where we joined the queueing well-wishers. Goodness knows, they must have been exhausted enough but stoically smiling amid the crowds, the bride and groom shook hands and took the congratulations of each guest amid showers of marigold petals. Finally, I had an opportunity to say hello, to thank them for their hospitality and to wish them the best for their future together. Just that though and no more as I was swept past and off the stage by the swelling crowd until the bride’s father (to whom we’d been briefly introduced at lunch) came and invited us back for a photo with his daughter and new son in law. Though I suspect there may have been some degree of ‘novelty foreigner opportunism’ to his request, it was a final photo that I didn’t mind as it was at least central to the purpose of the day!

There were a few final conversations (including one with a local Order Member who may be able to help us organise to go on retreat!) but we were then mercifully ferried home. It was a perfect ending really as though we could have stayed, we managed to leave while I was still enjoying it and hadn’t started getting too uncomfortable or irritated! Apparently the family also thought I’d ‘done well’ in wearing the sari, which was reassuring as I assume that means I also managed to avoid committing any public faux pas around activities such as eating, trying to subtly avoid photographs, or generally being an appropriately grateful guest! There’d been no filter water available at the event and I was thirsty after the salty, spicy lunch so I didn’t try and conceal my enthusiasm when Aryaketu suggested we go for coconuts on the way home! The seven of us slightly extended our journey to obtain the succulent thirst-quenching fruits and I relished every hard-earned slurp!I did enjoy the event, it was certainly an education and I also found I could relax into wearing the sari, in which I ended up feeling almost elegant (certainly not an adjective I’d normally use for myself!) but having said that, it was awfully good to be home and I didn’t need half as much help to carefully extricate myself from the folds and pins as I’d needed to get into them!

Go on then! One last photo before I get comfy!

My next opportunity to wear it will be to Neha’s wedding, in January, which I’ve been looking forward to since she visited England in June! I’m also very interested to see the difference and though I was initially sorry that I’d not be going to hers first, actually, I’m quite glad I got the chance to have a practice! I’ll not be feeling daft about needing help to get dressed though and will be very happy to accept the assistance. I shall certainly need it!

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‘Magga’ is the Pali word for ‘path’. In Buddhism, this word is often linked to the Ariya Magga, or Noble Eightfold Path, the fourth of the Four Noble Truths, which is the path to the cessation of suffering.

om‘Mission Maggamouse’ is the latest catalogue of the adventures of Glittermouse; a visual artist and educator. It has been initiated specifically to record and share her experiences at Aryaloka Computer Education Centre, a Buddhist social project in Nagpur, offering subsidised education to some of India’s poorest and most excluded young people. As a recent Dhammamitra (mitra who has asked for of ordination) of the Triratna Buddhist Order, this activity is an important step in integrating her teaching experience with her spiritual aspirations. You can read more about Glittermouse on the ‘home’ page of this site.